


your boy been a star

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, charlie plays minor league hockey because he's Hot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 15:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: They’ve silently established the court as their spot. This rusty old basketball court down the street from Noah’s place where they’d first met. Where theyalwaysmeet.





	your boy been a star

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know why noah hanifin college ball legend was a thought i had last night but here's the end result !!!
> 
> title from lavar by zo

It’s nearly pitch black out, the world’s lit by dots of light emitting from street lamps and even then it’s barely enough. 

But if Noah took the lack of lighting into consideration, he wouldn’t be out here in the first place. He wouldn’t be taking shots into a chain link net, kicking himself whenever the ball topples in the wrong direction. He wouldn’t be ignoring the sweat beading at his brow, telling himself _just five more minutes_ , and then _seven more minutes_ , and then _ten more minutes_.

His wrist is burning and his throat feels a little more closed up with every breath he takes, leaving his lips with a bitter taste on each exhale. There’s that determination in the pit of his stomach, the need to do this right, the desperate reach towards changing _something_ —getting better. 

Those are his nights, they always are. Using free time to fix things, _improve_ them.

But. He’s right outside the three point line when he hears a voice off to the side, it’s smooth and even and Noah hates that it makes him jump. “You look like you’re punishing yourself,” some guy says, and when Noah looks his way he can just barely make out the _BU Hockey_ logo stitched across his hat. 

“Do you mind?” Noah screws his face up into the best scowl he can muster. It’s easier than expected, but he already feels like fucking dirt so that’s no surprise. 

“Not really,” the guy says, and he’s sneering at Noah like he wants to catch a fucking fade. Noah wouldn’t mind giving it to him, but he’s dizzier than ever right now, and talking to this guy is giving him enough of a break that his wrist sighs in relief. “Public court, right?” The guy reaches for the duffle bag slung over his own shoulder, tugging at the strap with his thumb. 

“That doesn’t mean you gotta talk to me,” Noah says, and he really doesn’t get this hostile to strangers on the regular, but this accounts for, like, five violations of his let-me-mind-my-business code. Including the part where he’s being interrupted just to be snarked at. 

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to throw a fit because you’ve got company. I’m not trying to steal your thunder, _Kobe Bryant_.” The guy’s lips curl upwards at the corner and Noah decides to ignore that one, just because he doesn’t know this dude enough to tell if he’s trying to start something. And he really doesn’t want to break a bone before the season starts. That’d be ideal at least. 

Noah takes another shot and watches it bang in off the backboard, listening to the net as the ball shoots in by the chains. 

“Really up this late practicing, huh? No joke? Got kicked out by your mom or what?” Noah hears, and he looks back over at the guy just to pass him another glare. He gives him a _very_ obvious once over, just so he’s got it in the back of his head that Noah’s sizing him up. 

The thing is, Noah is completely fine with what he sees. He’s not going to say anything about it, but the thought’s there. 

“I’m not fifteen, dickhead, I moved out. Only reason I’d be out here now is if I was getting, like, sexiled,” he says simply. He keeps his words quick, as if the blatant glaring wasn’t giving off enough keep away vibes. “Which—isn’t likely.” Noah can almost hear Ian’s voice in his head, telling him to fuck off. 

“But you’re out here trying to break a hand?” 

“Shooting shots isn’t going to break my hand, have you even played the game?” Noah dribbles the ball and it‘s muscle memory, coming with ease. 

“Not if you’re not trying to snap the backboard in half on a fucking three,” the guy says, and Noah’s really just done talking, so he takes another shot, one after the other, and watches the guy walk off to the other end of the court. 

Noah tries not to watch him too much, but he passes him a look over the shoulder when he hears the sound of the net jingling, a shot going in straight through the rim. It’s annoying, because part of him hoped a guy prancing around in hockey merchandise was just about shit at basketball, but that’s apparently not the case. Because why would it be. 

He goes a little easier on his shots, easier on his hand, and hears a whistle when he makes a shot from the corner. It sinks in with a _swish_ , a sound Noah’s practically engrained into his head, and he immediately glances over to catch the guy looking amused.

Noah hates how comfortable it makes him feel and he chases after the ball just to get his mind back in the game. He ignores the warmth in the bottom of his stomach, cancelling it out with the cool breeze biting his ears. “Take a picture!” He calls out, and it earns a laugh from the guy. 

“It’s gonna be pretty hard to find a good side,“ He says back and Noah can see just the briefest flash of his teeth under the dim lighting.

“Any fucking side,” Noah answers. “Want me to spell it out for you, or are you illiterate too?” 

“No, I got that. Pretty unrealistic though, yeah?” He looks him over and then, “play me, one on one. Unless you’re scared.”

And Noah’s starting to catch onto just how competitive this asshole is, so he accepts. Just to have an excuse on the court to run another guy into the ground. 

 

 

Noah beats him to their set twenty one points by four and he isn’t one to showboat but he _does_ grin wide enough to blind, gloating about how he’s practically a mile ahead of him. 

And, he does end up getting a name. Charlie Coyle, apparently. Noah doesn’t know him well enough to set any impressions into stone, but he doesn’t like Charlie. He’s the type of guy to be loud and right in your face, chirping you for existing. It’s not cute. All of which are reasons to dislike him.

That and the fact that he’s a BU graduate. Noah’s not really cool with that, as expected. 

“And hockey?” Noah asks, pointing to his cap, which gets a chuckle out of Charlie. It’s almost malicious, the way it come out, deep and throaty, no more than a huff. 

“Yeah, because I don’t have shit taste in sports,” he tells him, his mouth twisting. There’s no real heat behind it, but Noah doubts he’d be able to differ it from anything irritated even if it was. Charlie speaks in one condescending tone of voice and that’s about it. 

“I mean, you’re not bad at basketball so obviously you’ve spent time playing it. Guessing your taste hasn’t always been this questionable, huh?” Noah says. 

Charlie looks a little affronted, his forehead puckering just slightly. “ _Not bad_ ,” he mimics, and he quickly adds, “ _Not bad_ almost kicked your ass one on one.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Got basketball buddies,” he says, but Noah gives him a skeptical look, so he goes on: “And a fucking childhood, asshole. Not everyone had a rink in their backyard. I had to do something.”

Noah squints at him scrutinizingly. “Did you not own a baseball bat?” 

“Baseball’s a fuck ass sport,” he says, and Noah doesn’t even know what that means so he decides not to pry.

“Really got a princess over here, didn’t know someone could be so picky with their sports.” Noah carefully watches Charlie drop his ball in his duffle bag, studying his moves like he probably shouldn’t. It’s not a good feeling, realizing that he’s staring.

He can feel Charlie glance at him. “Eat shit,” he says, dismissively waving his hand in a gesture Noah thinks he’s supposed to recognize. “Meet me on the ice someday, I’ll show you a real sport.”

“Funny that you think I can skate.” Noah’s been playing, like, _land_ sports his entire life. There’s no way he’s making any changes now. “If it’s not on a field, concrete, or pavement, I don’t trust it. This is why the Winter Olympics is dying.”

Charlie looks a little peeved, but. “What about tile flooring?” 

Noah tucks his ball under his arm. The walk back to his place isn’t a long one, but it’s a better idea to get started earlier rather than later. “Shut up.”

Charlie raises his eyebrows. “Or hardwood?”

“Fuck yourself,” Noah says, straight-faced, and Charlie laughs. It’s bright and sweet, and part of Noah _really_ likes it. And Charlie isn’t even the kind of guy Noah would go for, whatever it is he’s actually looking for—he doesn’t know, but a dickhead hockey dude probably isn’t it. So, yeah, that’s a thought he removes from his head before it turns into anything else. 

He hopes he never sees Charlie again. 

Even if part of him resents that.

“You have a nice night, man. Don’t get jumped on your way back,” Charlie says, and Noah starts walking after offering his own greeting, but he can’t help but look over his shoulder at Charlie.

“You got a car or are you walking, too?” Noah asks, and Charlie jingles some car keys in his direction in response.

“If you need a ride,” he offers, shrugging, and Noah probably feels the least bitterness towards him in that moment than he has all night. 

“I’m fine. Have a good one,” he says, and heads down the sidewalk dotted with glittering street lamps. 

That’s the last he sees of Charlie. Which is fucking fantastic.

 

 

Except for a few things:

1\. The basketball court he met Charlie at is the court he goes to nightly.  
2\. If Charlie ever decided to come back out after sunset, he’d be there.  
3\. Noah hopes, the first few times he goes back, that he’ll see Charlie again.  
4\. No dice.

It’s a little earlier this time, when laces up his sneakers and walks down to the court, dribbling his ball down the sidewalk. The sky looks like it’s bleeding with colour, dark purples meeting dusty pinks and oranges, blending into something gorgeous just off the horizon. Noah really doesn’t ever stop to smell the flowers, so a quick glance is enough. 

Taking his first shot of the night is much more important, which—“Hey!” he hears, and his grip slips up. The ball bumps the rim, bouncing off the court and right back into Noah’s hands.

He knows whoever this is is going to catch his hands, whether or not they had good intentions. But then he turns around and it shouldn’t be a shocker that he sees Charlie looking out at him, wearing something smug. 

“Why’re you here?” Noah asks, and he tries to come across as disappointed, but even then there’s that gratefulness underneath his voice even he can hear. Trying to convince himself Charlie is a nuisance keeps getting harder. 

“Public court, right?” He says, just like the first time, and it makes Noah smile—although maybe a little unwillingly. He bites it back, and swallows the laugh he can feel crawling up his throat.

“Yeah,” he says fondly, “Public court.” He bounces the ball towards him, and Charlie catches it, letting it hit the concrete to blend into a lazy dribble. “Gonna play me, superstar?” 

“I’ll beat you this time, too,” Charlie says, and Noah can feel the corners of his lips quirking upwards. 

“Doubt that,” he says. “Your funky hockey body checks are useless here. No point in trying to give me a concussion.” 

Charlie looks a little troubled, his nose pinching up when he directs a judgemental look towards him. “That would be a _penalty_.” 

“Right, five game suspension for mouthing off like a little shit,” he says, and claps his hands together. “C’mon, get past me. Show me what you got.”

“You ready to crossed?”

Noah lets out a bark of laughter, it’s almost entirely reluctant, but the way it gets Charlie’s lips to twitch up is still something else. Something that makes him feel a little more pleasant than it should, maybe. “You wish,” Noah teases, and Charlie’s already looking perpetually determined to get in past him.

“First overall NBA draft pick right here,” Charlie says, and Noah’s focus is almost entirely swept up by the smile that spreads across his face.

 

 

Noah doesn’t usually do it because of the mosquitos, but when Charlie slumps down on the grass to stare up at the sky, Noah flops down right next to him. The stars aren’t particularly bright tonight, they never are, but they’ve got a full moon to look at. Hovering above a city full of lights and life in its silent beauty. 

Charlie, however, is not a _silent_ beauty. Not for a minute. 

“Pretty sure practice tomorrow is going to beat my ass because of it,” he says, adding onto his complaining about taking a nasty fall after a shitty lay up. Noah watches him roll his ankle, and a barely-there wince immediately flashes across Charlie’s face. He can’t help but feel a little concerned.

Noah lets out a sigh, staring up at the inky black sky. There isn’t much to catch his eye, and part of him wants to turn his head to look at Charlie, but maybe not. Maybe that would make things weird. Maybe that would make _Noah_ weird. “Tell your coach you trespassed on the wrong guy’s turf. He’ll get it.” 

“Sure thing, buddy. Anything else? Maybe a foot rub?” His voice is practically dripping with sarcasm at this point. He puts his hands behind his head and Noah can appreciate that, especially since it rides his shirt up just slightly, revealing the smallest slit of skin at his side. 

“I mean, I play the superior sport. You tell me,” Noah says..

“You won’t be saying shit when I get you on the ice.”

“Again, who says you’re even going to get me on the ice?” Noah says, sitting up. He splays his hands out behind him, resting on his palms. “You’re really looking for a fight, hey?”

“Not a fight, just glory,” Charlie says and Noah catches his gaze when he glances down. Charlie’s looking up at him through his lashes and it’s. Not a great moment for him, he’s going to be honest. Noah looks away, staring off at the court. That used to be all he needed to lose his breath.

“You’re not gonna get me in knife shoes, first off,” Noah says, and Charlie lets out a small bout of laughter. “And I’m trying to stay in one piece for the season. Don’t know about you, but I’m not really a _play through a broken everything_ kind of guy.”

“Skating isn’t going to kill you,” Charlie says, and extends his hand to set it against Noah’s shoulder. He gives it a pat before retracting his fingers once again, and Noah can feel the heat leave his skin. “I’ll be there for you.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Noah deadpans. 

“But I care about you,” Charlie continues, and he’s got this motherly tone on that Noah despises. 

He groans miserably. “I’m going home, dickhead. Walk me,” Noah says, and gets to his feet. 

 

 

Charlie shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. “You know this would be a lot easier if you just let me drive you.” 

“Maybe later, Romeo.” Noah kicks a pebble, watching it bounce off the cracks in the pavement and land a few feet ahead of them. 

“Nothing romantic about walking you to your place in the freezing cold,” Charlie says. 

Noah’s still got his basketball with him, so he can’t even tuck his hands away. Charlie’s got it good, he doesn’t deserve to complain about shit. “When I was a kid I would walk 6 miles to school everyday,” Noah says, and he swears he’s heard his dad say it just like that to him at least five times.

“Too bad you didn’t get run over,” Charlie answers and throws out an easy smile. 

Noah’s place isn’t far and as they’re approaching it, part of Noah considers whether or not it would be appropriate to invite Charlie inside. Especially if Ian’s in, because, like, Ian gets suspicious pretty easily. 

But. Noah doesn’t think they’re at that level yet, so. “Come to the court tomorrow morning, we’ll play Horse.” 

“Like a bunch of preschoolers?” Charlie asks, and Noah nods easily. 

 

 

Noah hooks his fingers through the chain link fence on the court while he’s sitting there, watching Charlie take a couple easy shots. 

Noah lost their game of Horse really only because Charlie decided viciously poking his sides while he took his shot was fair. Noah didn’t argue about it, but now he’s a little dazed. The sun’s out, partially tucked behind a few clouds, and it’s pleasantly warm. Or—it would be pleasantly warm if Noah hadn’t been running up and down the court. 

Charlie takes another shot and it jingles the chains on the net, the ball sounding hollow as it hits the ground. Noah’s gaze lingers on Charlie, it’s a lot longer than he intends to, but his head’s spinning and everything feels so fucking mellow. 

Charlie looks his way, catching him staring, but he doesn’t say anything. For the most part, Noah’s content about it. Since getting called out for shit like that isn’t always a high point of his life, but he still glances down at the concrete. As if it’s really the most interesting thing out here, like Noah would take advantage of an empty court with both him and Charlie by ogling at the ground.

A moment later, Charlie sits down next to him. Noah almost doesn’t realize it, too busy trying to make out all the intricate bumps and skids in the concrete, but Charlie bumps their shoulders and suddenly it’s harder for Noah to concentrate. It’s only for a second, but Noah can feel how warm he is through his shirt and it makes his heartbeat jump, getting caught in his throat like the words he doesn’t let himself say.

Charlie pulls back and everything settles. 

“Come back to my place,” Noah offers. Charlie just looks at him with something curious glinting in his eyes. It doesn’t really click that he sounds like he’s trying to pull until Charlie opens his mouth to say something back. “I mean—for breakfast. We can come right back out here, but I’m fucking starved,” Noah adds quickly, and that sounds like it makes a little more sense. He’s hoping, at least. 

“Yeah,” Charlie says, and he tips his chin up to stare at the sky for a moment. “Just let me put my stuff in my car.” 

Noah nods his head and watches Charlie get up, keeping his gaze light and easy.

 

 

From the point Noah shuts the door behind them, his place is mostly silent. Ian might still be asleep, or even at work, but Noah’s not going to worry about it. It’s not as if they’re _trying_ to make any noise, if he gets yelled at for it later, he can deal. 

Noah gets the coffee machine going while he points out the pantry for Charlie, even if all he takes is an orange from his fruit basket. It gets Noah to smile.

“Don’t you have a roommate?” Charlie asks, leaning against the counter adjacent to him. The light from the kitchen window is catching on his eyelashes a little unfairly. There’s a lot about it that makes Noah wish his coffee machine would fucking electrocute him. 

“Yeah, Ian,” Noah says. He shrugs a little. “No idea where he fucked off to.”

Charlie leaves that at that, picking at the rind of his orange. He’ll switch what he’s pulling at every now and then, trying to get the entire thing in one go. Noah doesn’t think he’s ever catalogued anyone peeling an orange before, but there are things about Charlie that steal his attention. He can’t help it, not really. 

“How do you like your coffee?” Noah asks.

“Black,” Charlie answers, popping a slice of his orange in his mouth. There’s a peel sitting under the rest of it, shaped like a flower. Charlie flashes him a smile when he sees Noah staring at it.

“You’re kidding,” Noah says, sounding accusatory. “Nobody actually drinks black coffee, that’s a myth.”

“Living legend.” Charlie points to himself and Noah rolls his eyes hard enough that he thinks he’s going to give himself a strain. If it wasn’t for the way that made him smile. 

“Alright, asshole,” Noah gripes good-naturedly, and he pulls two mugs out of the cupboard. 

 

 

“You know, I’ve never seen you at the court during the day,” Charlie says, and Noah goes for a shot.

“That’s because I work an _actual_ job.” Noah goes after his ball, scooping it up before it bounces far enough that he needs to chase it. “And I have classes.” 

“Feels bad,” Charlie says, leaning against the net’s steel pole. “And, hey, fuck you. I work a job, man.”

“Hockey doesn’t count. I mean, you bully dudes for a living. Wow, get yourself a medal.”

Charlie just scoffs, his eyes trained on the ball. “Do you even own a pair of skates?”

“No? Mostly because I’m trying my best not to faceplant while playing a sport.” Noah passes him the ball, and Charlie steps back onto the court.

“Good thing I can still kick your ass out here, then,” he says, and Noah has to ignore the way his tone twists into something challenging. All because its got these warm undertones that makes it hard to believe it’s supposed to be intimidating.

 

 

Noah’s interest in Charlie comes in waves, fluttering every time he looks his way, each time he sinks a basket, or the way he’ll smile at Noah after congratulating him on a shot. It’ll be right before he chirps him for shitty form or otherwise, but it still hits Noah all the same. 

Two weeks ago, maybe, Noah really wouldn’t have thought he’d be considering picking up the guy who’d pissed him off to absolute hell, but it’s all looking a little more likely every time he sees him. 

Because Charlie’s got this charm to him that Noah doubts he’d ever manage to curb, even if he tried. Because it’s in the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he just _looks_ at Noah. With the world in his eyes and his lips curled up at he corner. He’s got an annoying face, Noah knows that well enough, but he still feels so driven towards him. 

Like, they’ve silently established the court as their spot. This rusty old basketball court down the street from Noah’s place where they’d first met. Where they _always_ meet and that would perfectly fine. But Noah’s always looking forward to seeing Charlie, always perking up when he’ll come down and he sees a flash of a red BU cap. 

“Should’ve failed so you could’ve stayed a few extra years,” Noah always says, flicking the brim of his hat.

“Should’ve came to BU so you could’ve carried on the legacy,” Charlie will say back, and it’ll always make Noah smile. _Charlie_ makes Noah smile, which is—yeah. That’s it.

 

 

“Your season’s starting next week, right?” Charlie asks, the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead catching the moonlight.

Noah blows out a small breath. He lies flat against the grass, right next to Charlie. “Pretty much, yeah. And you’ve got a game tomorrow, right? Where you headed?” 

“New Hampshire,” Charlie says. He keeps staring up at the sky, eyes darting along the occasional dot of light lost in the darkness. “What, you want a postcard?” 

“I should be good,” Noah says. His hand is inches away from Charlie, because, like, _he’s_ inches away from Charlie. But he’s trying not to think about that right now. There are lots of other things he could worry about and this isn’t one of them. “You ever gotten in a fight?” 

“Once, maybe, I just fuck with people. Never drop the gloves,” Charlie says, flexing his hand. 

“I mean, New Hampshire’s full of softies,” Noah tells him, even if he’s only been there, like, twice. “So, if you ever wanted to.”

“You want me to get in a fight?” Charlie glances over at him.

“You can take that however you want to,” Noah says, and there’s a smile hanging lazily from his lips before he can do much to help it. “For your honour, y’know, sometimes you gotta beat a guy up. I’d watch your game.” He says, and knocks his elbow against Charlie’s ribs.

“I’ll fight if you—tap someone on the shoulder during one of your games. How’s that?” 

Noah laughs and Charlie’s looking at him again, something amused written across his face. “Are you trying to set me up for an ejection?” He jokes, and that gets Charlie to chuckle. It’s always deep, and this time it’s right by Noah’s ear.

Which he can handle. With a lot of willpower at least.

“Right, that always slips my mind. Can’t do shit playing ball,” Charlie says, and Noah can hear the smile in his voice, words tilted upwards like a grin. “Guess that means no fight, yeah?”

“I’ll let you win next time we play one on one?”

“I’m gonna beat you anyways, no point in offering,” Charlie says, and he sits up, because it’s getting late. Noah should probably be going too, but he wants to spend more of his time with Charlie. He just. He doesn’t know how to ask.

“We’ll see, superstar,” Noah says. “You’re gonna forget everything you know about the game once you get back from your trip.”

“That is not how _anything_ about sports works.”

 

 

When Noah asked for Charlie’s number, it was in the friendliest way he could manage. Like, calling him _bro_ and trying to play it off as something casual, even if his heart was thumping viciously in his chest. 

He hasn’t actually used it yet, just occasionally glanced at the _charlie🏒_ in his contacts before brushing over it and deciding _actually_ texting him would be too bold. 

But then it’s the night of his game in New Hampshire and Noah ends up watching it on his laptop with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and Ian occasionally looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t mention how weird it is that Noah’s actually watching hockey, and that’s enough to keep him sane through the night. 

Then the game ends and Charlie’s grin is clear as day through the screen, which is fucking brutal for him, and the first thing Noah does is reach for his phone and types out _great game superstar_ , hitting send before he can overthink it. 

 

 

His phone buzzes during a class the next day with, _hey u actually watched! thanks_ shining bright against his home screen. Noah bites the insides of his cheeks.

 _u make hockey look dece:)_ , he texts back, and pockets his phone with a shallow breath. He doesn’t think about how much he wishes he could’ve seen the game in person.

 

 

“Didn’t think you’d be out here this late,” Noah hears, and it doesn’t make him jump this time, but Charlie’s voice still isn’t something he was expecting. Because, yeah, he’s out here much later than usual. But it’s really only because it’s a Saturday. He’s got no early classes to wake up for. 

He holds his ball still, looking over at him. “You’re out, too. Couldn’t sleep?”

“Nah,” Charlie says. “Missed ya, didn’t think you’d actually be here, but hey.” He shrugs. 

Noah’s wholly thankful for the dim lighting because he can already feel the tips of his ears burning. Charlie smiles like he can tell and Noah glances back towards the net. “You just assumed I’d be here? Couldn’t just text me?” 

“I wanted to be spontaneous.” He takes a few steps closer, walking down the court so Noah doesn’t need to throw his voice to talk to him. “You weren’t expecting it, right?”

“No, thought I was getting robbed,” Noah lies, and passes the ball to Charlie.

“Thanks, that makes me feel really welcomed.” Charlie shoots the ball and Noah watches it just barely topple out of the rim before going after it. “You don’t have a curfew?” 

“I’m not ten and I don’t live with my mom, so, no. I don’t,” he says blandly, rolling his eyes. “I got time for a game, gotta test out your loyalty to the court. You’re already losing your touch.”

“I am not, fuck off. Just rusty,” he says, grinning. 

“Yeah, bet?” Noah challenges, and walks past Charlie down to the three point line. “First one to ten.” 

 

 

Charlie really does beat him this time. Noah’s totally unsuccessful with trying to convince him he was just going easy on him, because Charlie just rolls his eyes.

Noah steps over a crack in the sidewalk as they’re heading back to his place and their hands brush on every now and then, which makes his skin feel like it’s on _fire_. His focus is fleeting, mind racing and heart working harder against his ribs with each passing moment. 

Then—“I’m gonna miss you when you go on your long ass roadies,” Noah says, frowning at him. Charlie’s hand lingers by his and his fingers are itching to hold on for just a moment. 

“Like you’re not gonna be heading down to Connecticut and shit, too,” Charlie argues, and that’s gets a smile out of Noah. 

“It’s different because I’ll actually be thinking about you.” Noah looks over just in time to see Charlie make an unsatisfied face at him. 

“I’ll _text you_ , what do you want me to do? Send you flowers?”

Noah shrugs. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

Charlie looks him over, and Noah thinks he could melt under his eyes if he wasn’t careful. He studies his face carefully, looking away when Noah bumps their shoulders. “Yeah, okay, I’ll bring you flowers,” Charlie says, like he’s actually going to do it. 

“Eat ass.”

“You think I won’t?”

“I think you’re extra.” Noah sees his place up in the distance and part of him wants to slow down. Just for a minute. 

“I’ll take you to dinner too, you shit,” Charlie says. “If you really wanna feel the fucking love.”

Noah raises his eyebrows skeptically, that startles a laugh out of him. “Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” it comes out quickly enough that it sounds competitive, like this is something Charlie is going to win, and Noah swears to shit he doesn’t know how or why he’s into this guy. 

“Okay,” Noah says simply, drumming his fingers against the ball under his arm. “Whatever you say.” 

When they stop in front of his place, Charlie lets out a breathy laugh, like he’s caught in disbelief. “Wait, what?”

“I think you just asked me out,” Noah says, shrugging like he’s absolutely oblivious to all of this. “Like, romantically.” 

Charlie blinks. “And—and you said yes?”

“I think. Probably,” Noah says. 

“Oh.” When Charlie smiles, there’s a glimmer under his eyes, something soft and secretive. Almost like this is some kind of inside joke between the two of them. “Okay, that’s—yeah. If you’re serious, yeah.” 

“I’m _serious_ ,” Noah insists. “You’ve got my number, if you want you can send me the details.” 

“Cool, okay,” he says, nodding his head. Noah laughs at the jerky motion of it. “Then it’s a date.”

 

 

 _i could pick u up tmrw at seven. cool?_ Charlie texts, it’s barely a few minutes after Noah gets inside his place. His stomach flips as he reads it over, unable to form much of a string of coherent thoughts. 

_yeah_ , Noah sends, and he catches himself grinning. _cool._


End file.
